Page 34 of No Room in the Inn

And the flecks of gold in his intense eyes hold me captive. I’m utterly incapable of doing anything but standing there before him, my hand still clasped loosely in his even though the bandage has already been applied.

“Why aren’t you angry at me?” he says. His voice is low, rough, his eyes betraying both curiosity and frustration. He’s close enough that I catch the scent of his minty breath mingling with his cologne.

I swallow. “You don’t need someone to be angry with you,” I manage to get out. “You’re angrier at yourself than anyone could ever be.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

But he hears me. His eyes widen in surprise, his lips parting slightly.

Slowly, I pull my hand from his and bring it up to his face, resting it against his cheek. Maybe it’s strange to be touching him so intimately, but when he’s so close to me, so raw, so open, hurting so badly and yet undeserving of that pain, how can I not?

“It was an accident,” I whisper.

He shakes his head slowly. “It was still my fault.” I can see in his eyes a desperate longing for my words to be true, and yet the belief that they’re not.

“You were driving too fast,” I say. “But you didn’t set the fire, even accidentally, and you never wanted to hurt anyone. Being angry with yourself still won’t change anything. It just makes it harder for you to live a fulfilling life in the present. Do you want to help other people? Do you want to make a difference in your corner of the world?”

He looks away and doesn’t answer.

But I’m not letting this one go. I have nothing to lose by saying these things; it’s not like I’ll ruin our friendship or something. We’re not really friends.

“Do you?” I ask again.

He sighs. “Of course I do.”

I nod. “Then let it go and move forward.Beyour best self if you want togiveof your best self.” I hesitate, thinking. “Okay. You’re like a well of water, right? And you hating yourself is like poisoning your own well of water. When someone needs help, when someone needs a drink, all you have to offer is poisoned water because you’re not letting yourself be free of this anger”—I tap on his chest—“in here.”

Nixon looks down slowly at my finger still on his chest, and I freeze in place. When his gaze comes back to mine, my breath hitches, my heart picking up its pace.

And then he’s leaning closer, impossibly closer. His breath is on my lips, my eyes flutter closed—

And then, instead of feeling his lips on mine—andwhydo I want to feel that? What’swrongwith me? It’s just because I’m physically attracted to him. That’s it—I’m hearing his voice, low and rough, in my ear. My eyes fly open as I hear,

“You’re 0/1 in the Hallmark activities. Please don’t use the oven when I’m not home. I don’t trust you not to burn the kitchen down.”

My jaw drops, and I rear back, going to swat Nixon in the chest, but he catches my hand before it makes contact.

He shakes his head, making a littletsking sound. “Violence is not the answer, Willow.”

He lets go of my hand, and it drops, hanging uselessly by my side. With a wink and a smirk—the return of his cheeky façade—he turns and heads out of the kitchen.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject,” I call, but he’s already gone.

Chapter 17

Willow

The repairmen come to the inn bright and early—and I mean bright andearly.They’re here at seven, before the sun is even all the way up. Who does that? I mean, fine, get a good start to your day, but don’t you need the light to see anyway?

It’s safe to say that I’m not a morning person.

Neither is Nixon, apparently. Although he’s awake when they come, he spends the entire time in silence, doing nothing but glaring at them while he sucks down two mugs in a row of hot chocolate. I’ve got a feeling it has less to do with the actual repairmen and more to do with the fact that their presence is a reminder that I plan to sell the inn.

I try not to think about that part, because when I do, I get an uncomfortable squirm of guilt in the pit of my stomach. It was one thing when I thought he was just attached to the inn, but now Igethis attachment.

And I hate that I feel guilty. Because I really don’t need to. Yes, I understand his desire to fix what he broke, so to speak. But at the end of the day, that’s not my concern. I sympathize, but I still need to sell this place. That hasn’t changed at all.

The repairmen are efficient as they do whatever it is repairmen do. To me it seems like they just look at stuff, take notes, and ask questions, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that. I can’t help but notice that not one of them seems gruff or grumpy; Hallmark really seems to have missed the mark on that one. They’re all friendly and cheerful—waytoo cheerful for this ungodly hour.

Once they’ve left, I go back up to my bedroom to make another call. It’s important that I’m not around Nixon when I talk on the phone this time, because if he was so grumpy toward the repairmen, I can only imagine how he’ll feel about a real estate agent. I mean, that’s all but rubbing it in his face that I plan on selling. Yet again I push his near-desperate pleas out of my mind—his eyes, full of guilt, his body slumped in defeat. It’s an image I haven’t quite been able to forget yet.

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